The Old Men
by Aitrus5
Summary: A short story set many years after the original events in Myst


The Old Men  
  
Pt. 1  
  
The old man lay dying.  
No longer could he curse in anger. No longer could he wail in agony, or rage in frustration at the fate that had befallen him.  
He shuddered with cold, drawing his bedclothes up over his hairy chin, and stared at the ceiling of his room.   
He'd long ago lost count of the cracks.  
His last dinner lay rotting on the table. He hadn't the strength to pick up the dishes.  
"I am King!" he shrieked, spittle flecking his lips. Long, dirty white, his beard trailed over his chest like the fur of the animals he'd examined as a child.   
He flung aside his sheets and sat up, wincing at the unaccustomed movement. Naked, covered in sores, he made his way to the balcony, lunging from chair, to table, to railing. There was no one to see, so why should he care about modesty?  
Once, he'd clothed himself in fur and jewels, drank fine wine with a woman on each arm. Millions of lives to play with. He'd give anything to feel precious stones slip through his fingers once again. It was better than a woman's hair.   
Once, he'd been King.  
The old man stared out at the sea, chest heaving with exertion. His eyes no longer searched for a ship on the  
horizon. His skin was tanned nut-brown. A half-sunken raft was tied to a pole on the edge of the island below him.  
He'd sailed many years, on that flimsy contraption of wood and tied grasses. He'd made many toy ones, necessity forced him now to learn how to do it properly. He'd had no metal, or even a tool to work with.   
Only what his father had provided him.   
He'd sailed, first looking for some signs of civilization. Anything. A glimmer of light on the horizon turned out to  
be a trick of the stars. A sound that had reminded him of the lighthouse turned out to be a dying sea creature, of whose meat and cutting teeth he helped himself to gratefully.   
Then he'd sailed to find food, for he grew sick daily of the pata-fruit that fell with alarming regularity on top of his roof.   
Finally, he'd sailed for something to do, anything to catch his interest. Anything to relieve the boredom.   
Once, he had been the lord of many worlds...now he was lord of a scrap of nothing.   
His island was similar to other ones he'd been too. Sandy beaches, rock outcroppings, palm fronds, and bluffs covered in greenery. He could walk the breadth of it in a day. It all swept up into two large hills, both capped with nothing but black volcanic rock. His hut was between them both, in a valley next to a stream that nearly bisected the island. The largest animal was a fat lizard, and there were birds that had an annoying talent of mimicry.   
It galled him to no end to hear his own voice crying back at him in the dark of the night.   
He knew after a frantic day of searching high and low for a linking book that he would die here. Die on this   
wretched slab of rock. Nothing to look at but his reflection in the water. Nothing to think about but thoughts of futile revenge and unimaginable regret.   
The railing creaked after all these years under the white-knuckled grip of veined hands. Rotting teeth ground together, and thin lips drew back. Skin as thin as paper grew red and seethed in anger.   
"LET ME OUT!" he screamed at the clouding sky. "FATHER, LET ME OUT!"  
The blacking clouds answered with a rumble of thunder. He slumped down, cursing in his mind. There would be no answer. For all he knew, no link existed anymore.  
Certainly none existed on this island.   
The first day, he'd sat right at this very spot, wondering what had gone wrong. Why it hadn't worked. What he'd done to deserve such treatment.  
He'd rather have been killed. This was far, far worse.   
He'd always needed others to feel important. Alone, he was nothing. Nothing to do, no one to play with. His brother had been his favorite plaything. He'd bait him or cajole, whatever his mood was in. Loved to argue. Debate. See what kind of reaction he could get out of him. Molding him into whatever he needed that day. Playing him against father. That had always been fun.   
"Dear brother..." he wheezed out.   
The people had been even more fun. It amused him to no end that while his father had always told him that  
he didn't make the worlds he wrote, none of the people had really believed him. Not really. It had been to big a concept, to much for them to accept. They'd rather it be magic. Something bigger than themselves. The idea that something was behind all this. And he and his brother had played on that fear.   
It was really amazing what people would do for you if you just said the right things. He'd written the name  
of their world in the flowing script in front of them. Writing of the Gods indeed. Then he'd crossed it out with a great flourish and a powerful yell and watched their faces sag in delicious fear.   
He didn't even have a weapon. He didn't need one. His brother relied on crude threats and bluster. He was like a fine scalpel, sharp and to the point.   
And he listened. Listened to rumor, to myths, to stories about their days. And he used it against them, twisting them around, because he could. It amused him.   
He was one man, and worlds had bowed before him with simple words and deeds. Even he didn't believe it had happened.   
Now he couldn't even remember how to write his own name.   
The old man watched the sun set for the last time, water from the rain washing his skin clean. He didn't want to  
remember anymore. It only brought pain. His eyes glittered in the twilight, defiance still burning down to the embers.   
"I hope your bones are rotting in that Green book." he croaked suddenly. He stared into the night, breathing growing shallower. The King was dying...  
  
In the morning, a birds alighted on the roof, attracted by the smell. The body sat against the railing, slumped sideways. The right hand was planted firmly on the wooden balcony, fingers spread. The wind swirled through the empty house. A slight snarl was on the old man's lips, his beard whipped in the wind. The only sounds were the ocean waves. Something made the birds nervous, and flutter about, alarmed. It poked and prodded the barest limits of their senses. One last howl of anger and rage....it was barely heard among the breeze.  
  
But there.   
  
  



End file.
